


Anything to add, Bonnie?

by wavesketcher



Category: The Vampire Diaries (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Professors, F/M, Teacher-Student Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2019-08-13
Packaged: 2020-05-19 00:46:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19346104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wavesketcher/pseuds/wavesketcher
Summary: *AU* Bonnie is studying abroad in London and, upon turning up late to his class, piques the interest of a very arrogant (very attractive) Professor Salvatore."Sexy or not, they're here to learn and this Professor Salvatore seems more interested in parading his sex-appeal to a bunch of thirsty twenty-somethings than unpicking the nuances of Woolf's narrative consciousness."





	1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I wanted to write some Bamon today but just didn’t have the inspiration to update any of my multi-chapter fics. The result is another one-shot BUT I’ve decided to split it into three short components.**

**P.S I have a serious teacher kink (secret confession whoops) but obviously disagree with anything underage etc hence why this is set in college/university and not a high-school. Enjoy!**

 

“You know, you didn’t have to go quiteeee so far for college, Bon.”

She laughs at Caroline’s tinny voice. “I’m living the English dream, Care. Don’t take it away from me.”

“Yeah, yeah, well you better come back with a sexy young Hugh Grant after all this.”

Bonnie scans the lawn, “Not going to lie, the boy front is a little disappointing.”

“Ugh. Typical.”

She laughs again, “I miss you. You know, that right?”

“Naturally. Speak to you later?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

The call ends and like every time, Bonnie cringes in the swooping emptiness. She’s in London and it’s vibrant and beautiful and some days she feels so alive – meandering through art galleries, drinking cocktails along the river, pressing her fingers against centuries old stone – and some days she just wants to be at the Grill, sharing a plate of cheesy fries with Caroline and Elena. Bonnie pushes her mouth into a smile and glances at her phone, the laughing photo of the gang back in Virginia. _Shit._ She’s late for Modernism.

After collecting the contents of her bag and throwing it over her shoulder, Bonnie begins a strange hybrid of running and walking, weaving her way through the crowds gathering outside the lecture hall. _Room 1.05_. She pauses at the door to catch her breath, then turns the handle.

The seminar room is small, intimate, and every head turns to disapprove at her tardiness. Bonnie swallows, manages a mumbled sorry, and slips into the nearest seat in the circle.

“Now our final member has been kind enough to join us, let’s begin.”

 She looks up from unpacking her bag – a purple notebook and moth-eaten pencil case. The professor has his back to the class, a whiteboard marker in hand as he writes _To the Lighthouse_ in slanted scrawl. He’s American. _Surprising._

Desk arranged; Bonnie takes the opportunity to inspect the rest of her classmates. They’re mostly girls, all of them gazing at the back of the American professor in something she can only describe as _lust_. He’s not particularly tall – in fact, his shoes appear to have a tiny heel. The detail makes Bonnie’s mouth twitch. _Whoever this dude is, he’s over-compensating._

“Okayyyyy, To the Lighthouse. I hope you’ve all read it,” he spins from the whiteboard with a smirk and _oh_ , Bonnie sees it.  

His shirt sleeves are rolled, exposing strong, tanned arms and his hair falls in two, perfect dark strands to frame an ice-blue stare, and _wow, is she writing smutty fanfiction or is she trying to get an education?_

“How about Miss Sorry-I’m-late?”

Bonnie finds her voice a beat too late. “Um, sorry, what was the question?”

The professor lets out a sigh and perches on the edge of the desk. His fingers flirt together on his lap – Bonnie steals her eyes away. “Have you read Virginia Woolf’s masterpiece, _To the Lighthouse_?”

 _Did she read that?_ She vaguely remembers trying to wade through the slow-moving pages in the midst of a hang-over stupor. A wasted night really; she left the club two hours early.

“Yes, I did.”

“Oh _good_ ,” he pauses, his stare near undressing her, “I’m Professor Salvatore, by the way, but as you’re all _mature_ students, you can call me Damon.”

There’s something dangerously sarcastic in everything he says. An arrogance, definitely, which, evidenced by every girl’s swelling stare and attention, is _extremely_ attractive. Bonnie sinks back against her chair. _And he knows it._

Damon picks up the book from his desk and turns it over in his hands – ringless, Bonnie observes. There’s a breath and then he says, “Well,” so suddenly, that the room jumps in a nervous titter. Damon lifts his brow.

 _He’s got an audience and he’s performing the hell out of it._ Bonnie feels her eyes harden. Sexy or not, they’re here to learn and this _Professor Salvatore_ seems more interested in parading his sex-appeal to a bunch of thirsty twenty-somethings than unpicking the nuances of Woolf’s narrative consciousness.

“You look unamused, Bonnie,” his lips twitch in a playful smile, “It is Bonnie isn’t it?”

“I’m just ready to learn,” she tries for a smile in return, strained, “And yes, it’s Bonnie.”

The corners of his eyes fold, crinkling in quiet amusement. “Then _learn_ we shall.”

He begins with a discussion of what people made of the book. The other girls leap at the chance for his attention, monologuing about stream of consciousness and cadences and subtlety and _isn’t Mrs Ramsay an enigma?_ Bonnie resists the urge to roll her eyes at Damon’s sitting position – stretched back against the chair, his hands playing with his hair. The girl talking stumbles over his words when he does that and his smirk is so infuriating Bonnie actually snorts. _Shit._ She tries to mask it with a cough and quickly drowns her embarrassment by taking a long dreg of water, all the while he’s just watching her, brow raised, lip curled in a smirk.

“Anything to add, Bonnie?”

“No, I’m good,” and, when Damon doesn’t shift his gaze, she says, “Thank you.”

“ _Enlightening._ You know Bonnie, I think everyone should model their first paper on your answer. There’s just… _a lot_ to unpack there.”

A couple of the girls’ giggle and she blushes, mortified and _furious_. _What. A. Dick._

At the turn of 5pm, her bag is already packed and she escapes the stuffy room before anyone else. Damon’s immediately swarmed by students asking him questions about office hours and extra credit; she lets the door swing to a close.

Bonnie fumbles for her phone and clicks on Caroline’s name. She picks up on the third ring.

“You okay, Bon?”

She speaks fast: “I just came out of my Modernism class and my professor is an actual dick.”

There’s a pause before Caroline chuckles, “Ah, the classic shitty English professor.”

Bonnie finds a wall to lean against, pushing her foot in a figure of eight across the trodden carpet. “He’s American actually and he’s _awful_. Arrogant, belittling, you name it.”

She can feel her friend’s smirk. “He sounds hot.” Bonnie doesn’t say anything and Caroline squeals, “He’s totally hot, isn’t he!?”

“Fine, yes. He’s stupidly attractive but his attitude ruins everything.”

“Are you sure his attitude doesn’t _make_ everything?” Caroline teases and Bonnie groans.

“Caroline, we’re meant to be empowering women. Arrogance shouldn’t mean sexy.”

“ _Oh,_ but it _does_ , doesn’t it? I think you have a crush on your professor.” She sing-songs the last bit and Bonnie rolls her eyes.

“I do not.”

“You’ve always been a terrible liar, Bonnie Bennett. Anyway, I’ve gotta go to work. Enjoy fantasising.”

The line shuts off before she can protest. _Damn you, Care._ She turns from the wall and yelps. Damon’s arms are folded, his mouth twisted in both anger and delight, and Bonnie’s heart plummets like a stone to her stomach so fast she feels nauseous. _Fuck, fuck, fuckety fuck._

He clears his throat. “I appreciate you finding me – what were your words exactly? – oh yes, _stupidly attractive_ , but maybe calling your professor a dick after the first seminar _isn’t_ the smartest idea.”

Bonnie fumbles for words, aware that her skin is reddening and there is _no way out_ of this cavernous hole she’s buried herself in. “I er- sorry – I just – you,” she screws her eyes shut, “You weren’t particularly nice.”

Damon’s brows are so far up his forehead he looks like a mime. “Are you serious?”

She nods, unsure where to look. There’s a strong smell of pine emanating from his… _neck?_ The redness intensifies.

“Word of advice, Bonnie, you don’t get anywhere being _nice_.”

And he walks away, shaking his head with laughter or irritation or both. _Fuck._

 

**A/N: Teeny-tiny chapter, I’m sorry! Follow for the next two chapters! I hope you like Professor! Damon as much as I do. *Heart eyes***


	2. Chapter 2

It’s a rule of life: actively try and avoid someone, and you see them everywhere. She’ll be queuing for a latte and, in her periphery, she’ll him, lounging on an arm chair, leafing through the pages of a Ted Hughes poetry book in boredom; or she’ll turn a corner and he’s marching in her direction, talking animatedly to another professor, taking a bite out of an apple. Bonnie swiftly opts for a different route back to the dorms. _Very_ swiftly.

Soon enough, Monday rolls around and at the turn of 3pm, she’s sat on her bed, ready to binge a few episodes of Teen Wolf. There’s just _no way_ she can face the seminar again – not yet. Give it another couple of weeks or so, when the phone conversation isn’t as fresh and her cheeks have stopped flaring up at the thought of it. Over FaceTime, Caroline had laughed until she weed; Elena looked positively horrified.

At 5:05pm, Bonnie’s just about to click ‘play next episode’ when an email notification juts across her laptop screen: Prof. Damon Salvatore. And pathetically, her heart picks up. _He’s your teacher, Bonnie, not some boy you like._

**Dear Bonnie,**

**I couldn’t help but feel the absence of your insightful comments in class today.**

**Prof. Damon Salvatore**

 

Dear Damon,

Unfortunately, I was unwell.

Bonnie Bennett

 

**Dear Bonnie,**

**A shame. Regardless, you still need to be informed about the essay. My office hours are 6-7pm, Tuesday, Arts 3.50. See you there.**

**Damon**

She wants to type again; tell him she can’t make it – just to see how he’ll respond… that’s all. _Oh fuck, I have a serious crush on my professor._ Bonnie closes her laptop screen with a sigh, irritated by how easily she’s fallen for his stupid charm. Just like every other girl on this campus. _Dammit._

Bonnie tries (and fails) to spend less than a few minutes in the mirror at 6:40pm the following day. She’s usually pretty low-maintenance, often choosing to go makeup free in sacrifice of a few extra minutes in bed. It’s something she’s learned to be okay with – her own skin, maybe even love it. Confidence has been a journey, particularly after Elena’s brother, Jeremy, cheated and tore her damned heart out of her chest. Going to London, fleeing all the messiness of that: it felt right. It felt _hers._

Damon’s office door is open; she can hear laughter, a girlish giggle and a low hum. _Just grab whatever it is and go, Bonnie._ She shifts further into the doorway to catch his eye. Damon smirks.

“Sybil, I’m afraid I’m going to need to cut this short. I’ve got another student needing my attention.”

Sybil turns, a scowl in her eyes at Bonnie’s presence. _Sorry to interrupt your date._ She smiles back to him.  “I’ll email you if I have any more questions, Professor.”

“Great.” Damon stands to usher her out. Bonnie’s mouth thins at the girl’s hips, swinging ridiculously side to side as she struts down the corridor. Strangely, if Damon notices, nothing flickers across his sharp features except intrigue, and perhaps slight triumph, at Bonnie standing in his doorway.

“I’m here about the paper…?”

“Of course, you are. Come in.”

He’s taken off his tie – she notices it lying discarded on the chair. Damon leans back against his desk to study her. Bonnie shifts on her feet, willing the heat to lessen. She had a rather vivid dream about Professor Salvatore and his desk the previous night.

“You feeling any better, Bonnie?”

She threads her fingers together. “Yes, thank you.”

Damon extends every syllable, and Bonnie can practically _feel_ the curling of his tongue as he says, “ _Lovely_.”

“Um… the paper?”

He reaches behind him. “Everything you need to know is on this sheet.”

Bonnie takes a step forward to retrieve it and Damon’s eyes flare with something startling. “Do I make you nervous, Bonnie?”

 _What the fuck!?_ “Nervous?”

Damon’s face stretches in a lazy smile. “England’s a funny place, isn’t it?”

“I… guess so?”

“See! You’re so tentative to answer. Nervous.”

Bonnie folds the paper, desperate for some distraction from her thumping heart. “I’m not nervous. I just came for the instructions.”

Damon pushes back against the desk and his brow softens. _Weird._ “Are you settling in okay?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“I get it. Being so far away from home… it can feel lonely.”

“Yeah.”

He sighs, like there are words to say but he hasn’t the energy nor is he equipped to say them. Bonnie has folded the sheet into four now. “Anyway, I’ll let you go. It’s student night tonight, isn’t it? Wouldn’t want you to miss out on all those university ‘lads’, as the Brits say.”

Damon’s eyes are narrowed, and is _he challenging her? Provoking her?_ Bonnie’s mouth pulls at a smile, revelling in this tiny power, “Don’t worry, I won’t.”

His face drops and for a moment, she thinks she’s gone too far. He _is_ still her teacher. But Damon just pivots, focussing his attention on the piles of paper aggregating atop his desk. She slips out the room – not before he can murmur, “See you at tomorrow’s lecture.”

* * *

The theatre for their Modernism lectures is vast. So vast, in fact, that the students are scattered in tiny clumps at various corners, leaving aching gaps between. Bonnie starts her own private gathering at the edge, shoots off a few text replies to her mom and Elena, then flips to a fresh page in her notebook. She’s writing the date when her arm is brushed past and _Wednesday_ looks very transfigured. Bonnie looks up to glare at whoever jolted her and _low and behold_ , Damon is walking down the steps towards the front of the theatre. He doesn’t need to turn around for Bonnie to know he’s wearing his smirk.

She watches as he greets the other professors, throws his head back in mirth at whatever one of them said. At one moment he looks directly at her, but she’s convinced nearly everyone in the lecture theatre is thinking the same thing. ‘Omg Professor Salvatore looked at me!’ Bonnie resumes writing the date. _Pathetic._

The lecture is an hour long and actually very interesting. Professor Saltzman from the History department (another American, funnily enough) is discussing the impact of the war on modernist writers. Bonnie takes copious notes and begins to pack her bag in the final five minutes, keen on leaving before the rush. Well, and Damon.

And yet, as she’s about to cross the street back onto main campus, she hears a familiar, teasing voice: “Bennett.” Bonnie continues. _He can’t seriously follow me, can he?_   “Bennett!” _Apparently, he can._

She turns to see him jog towards her, a grin in place. His tie is back on and swings violently in the motion. Damon stops just in front of her. “How’s my _favourite_ student?”

Bonnie folds her arms. “Amazing…can I help you?”

“Always so defensive, Bonnie,” Damon tuts and the skin around his eyes is crinkled again and _dammit, can he just chill out on looking so freaking gorgeous all the time!?_ “I wouldn’t have had to run after you if you weren’t so insistent on leaving before everyone.”

“Have I done something wrong?”

“What? No, no, I just,” he digs his hand inside his pant pocket, “wanted to give you this.” He unfolds the paper in her palm, “I gave you the wrong instructions.”

Bonnie studies the title: ‘The Tale of Two in _To the Lighthouse’_. “This is the one you gave me.”

Damon’s mouth twitches. “Oh really?”

“Professor Salvatore!”

Professor Saltzman waves him over and Damon responds with a salute. He places a hand on Bonnie’s arm, very quickly, very lightly, but there all the same, and whispers, “Maybe I just wanted your attention.”

It takes several seconds for Bonnie’s breath to return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As someone who always has a crush on their English teacher, this story is dangerous to write lol.   
> Please do review!! (I might be writing more than one new chapter oops)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is embarrassingly short – I’m sorry. My Wifi is off for a couple days so I’ve got to write/ upload tonight. I hope you guys enjoy it anyway!

“Care, _stop_!” She buries her face in the pillow, legs flailing.

“Not like you haven’t thought about it… Come on, Bon, he clearly has a little infatuation-”

“ _Infatuation_?”

“Yeah, you know like an… obsession. I mean, you’re the English student?”

Bonnie flips on to her back in a single motion. “I know what it means, Care, I just… an infatuation, really? I’m nothing special, I don’t-”

“Bonnie Bennett,” the tinny voice scolds, “What did I say about talking down about yourself?”

She groans. “You know what I _mean_.”

Caroline’s hums, unconvinced. “Do you know how old he is?”

“Damon? Ermm maybe like twenty ei-”

“Thirty-one,” Caroline interrupts, “An older man, how _delicious_.”

She has to laugh. “Have you searched him up?”

“Obviously. Do you know he has a brother who’s written like a million books? He’s called Stefan and he looks like a _literal_ Greek god.”

“Fuck, their parents have good genes.”

“Uh huh. I expect a double wedding: Stefan and Caroline, Damon and Bonnie. No pressure.”

“Do they have another sexy brother for Elena?” Bonnie plays along. Sometimes indulging in Caroline’s fantasies is too tempting to resist… particularly when a certain Professor Salvatore is involved.

“I’ll keep digging. Imagine if they - Oh _shit_! Bon, I’m sorry, I just remembered I’m scheduled for a shift tonight, covering Janey or whatever she’s called. You know the kinda weird one that wears green tights and green bows? Anyway, love you, speak soon and don’t forget to slip in your cell number in the paper. Byeeeee.”

Bonnie chucks the phone to the other side of the bed and stretches out atop the covers with a yawn. It’s about 8pm, five hours after that… _encounter_ with Damon and her arm still burns a little at his touch. _You like an angsty tumblr poet. Get a grip._ The last time Bonnie had a forbidden crush, had been Kol Mikaelson three grades above. He was English, for starters, charming, and said her name with far too much emphasis on the ‘B’ for her to believe he saw her as more than just the wide-eyed Freshman. She became convinced that her tortoise shell of a backpack, the red glasses, her lace up brogues, somehow formed a picture of elegance, endearment, _desire_. Really, Kol just wanted to take her lunch money and buy some weed from the lofty dude in the art corridor. _Men._ And yet, he still gives her butterflies, even now, loitering around car parks, winking at her from behind his cigarette.

The forbidden. It sets her alight.

* * *

She hadn’t wanted to go out. Stiles Stilinksi was in _grave_ danger and she was near gnawing her own lip off worrying about how the _hell_ Scott was going to swoop in and save his bestie. The bang on her door came in threes; Bonnie jumped every time.

“Jess? It’s 11? Are you okay?”

The brunette grinned. “Get dressed. Flat night out. Let’s go.”

Bonnie ummed and ahed, dragged her slippers along the floor, threw longing glances Stiles’ way but eventually, acquiesced to the whims of her flatmates.

“This is peer pressure.”

“No, it’s _uni_ ,” Jess corrected, and thrust a bottle of £1.99 Lambrini under her nose.

And Bonnie should have stopped there, been content with a light buzz and a lingering laugh at her idiot flatmates but _no_ , she took one look at the firing line of vodka shots and bang, bang, bang – Bonnie Bennett has her head in the toilet.

She rubs her mouth with the back of her hand, pushing herself off the rim of the toilet seat to lean against the wall. _Bedtime._ Jess and the rest are nowhere to be seen: the student bar abuzz with colour and noise, unnatural laughter and cheap beer. Gingerly, she begins to wade through the crowds. Her mouth feels stale; her fingers shake a little. Bonnie fumbles in her bag for another tissue and mercifully, her past self has managed to shove a half-eaten pack of chewing gum between a tampon and her ID. The fresh mint blasts her soured taste buds. _Bedtime._

Outside, the air is crisp and she tugs on the khaki jacket, folding it around her chest. _Bloody England._ It’s only a short walk back to the student accommodation – up the stairs, turn left, down the path, turn right and…

_No, no, no, no, no._

There he is, striding towards her, engrossed in something on his phone, _thank God_. Bonnie pivots immediately, mentally recalculating the next fastest route back to the halls. She’s about to descend the stairs when her boot catches on an imaginary trip wire and she stumbles, hand flayed out ready to break the fall.

“Woah there,” Damon chuckles. His hand is on her arm again, holding her steady.

Bonnie yanks free, “I’m fine.” Damon thrusts his hands in the air, that _smirk_ poking at his lips. She stiffens. “What are you even doing here?”

“I left some papers in my office – I need them for tomorrow morning.”

She squints up at him; his perfect face, shadowed under moonlight, looking like a damned _vampire_ or something… _something equally as seductive_. Bonnie crosses her arms. “ _Or_ , you’re stalking me.”

Damon quirks an eyebrow – it lifts the corner of his mouth too. “Maybe, maybe.” There’s a pause; he shifts onto the balls of his feet. “How are you getting on with the essay?”

“Wowwww, mood kill much,” she shakes her head, slightly terrifying herself with the alcohol induced confidence, “I’ve just come out of a _bar_.”

“Ah. The throes of student life. Intoxicating,” the smirk intensifies, “ _Literally_.”

And because she has no filter like this, fatigued, still sweaty from the effort of vomiting, and the hottest professor she’s ever seen is talking to her, _gone midnight_ , she says, “Are you flirting with me?” Bonnie moistens her lips; _what the fuck, what the fuck!?_ “I mean, you flirt with everyone but-”

“You think I flirt with everyone?”

She stares at the ground – his impossibly shiny shoes. “Um, yeah, I guess, kind of.” _Eloquent. Good work._

Damon observes her, she can feel his eyes, chasing and reading, collecting data in confusion, the absurdity of her claim, no doubt. Several more seconds pass and she _can’t take it anymore_ , so she snaps her head up and says words that will probably haunt her forever: “Stefan is really pretty too, by the way.”

There’s a pause – a long one – and then she turns, fuelled by self-loathing and _WHAT THE FUCK,_ and charges down the stairs. Damon calls her name; she turns the corner.

_Medieval Poetry better still have vacancies._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this was awful – I apologise. More light-hearted yet extremely cringey ahhh. Why Bonnie? Whyyyy? The time you take to review is really so appreciated. Thank you.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s been a HOT MINUTE since I wrote any Bamon (or anything oops) so apologies if I seem rusty.

She chews on her pen; pretends to read; rambles in ink across her notebook – anything but look up, catch his stare, _die_ inside. She tries _not_ to notice that he’s wearing blue today, how distracting his eyes are when matched with it. But at the turn of 5:00pm, she remains seated. Damon pauses at his desk, fingers hovering above the book he was about to pick up.

“You surprise me, Bonnie. I didn’t think you would show up today.”

“This was my last class.”

He chuckles, “Why are you being so dramatic about everything?”

She swallows. “I’m not enjoying Modernism, that’s all.”

“This is about the other night, isn’t it? You seeing your Professor, all dressed up and tipsy.” Bonnie’s heart thickens – Damon arches a brow. “My brother says thank you, by the way. As you can imagine, Stefan doesn’t get many compliments.”

“I’m guessing you do.” It’s startling, this side of her. Back in Mystic Falls, Caroline’s the charmer, the flirt, the seducer (Elena only has to make eye contact with a man and they’re confessing their love). Bonnie Bennett is a notoriously bad flirt but here, with _him_ , it’s a gutsy verbal sparring match and she’s terrified, _electrified_ and- he puts his hands on her desk. The word is a whisper:

“Hundreds.”

She drops her gaze at his proximity. _Do I move? Gather my things? Sit here? Wait._ She’s said what she came here to say – it’s merely courteous to notify the Professor in person when you are dropping their class. _Move, idiot._

Damon walks his fingers, feather-light, over her notebook. His left hand is stretched against the wood of her desk, the cuff of his blue shirt stiff around his wrist. Bonnie’s mouth is dry – she clears her throat and the man looks up through his eyelashes, teasing smirk.

“Have a nice day, Bonnie Bennett.”

And then he’s stretched, standing, back turned, shuffling through essays like the _Professor_ he is. With shaking hands, she folds the cover of her notebook, pushes water-bottle, novel and pen into her rucksack. Damon takes a seat behind the desk, kicks his feet up, begins to read.

Bonnie yanks the door handle, then falters. The part of her he’s awakened leaps. “Was I imagining this?”

Damon turns a page. “Imagining what?”

“This. You and… all of this.”

The man lowers his novel – his smile not _quite_ tucked. “We’re Literature students. Read between the lines.”

* * *

 

 _Medieval Poetry_ is taught by Dr Miles. A sixty-year-old, brown cardigan wearing, English woman who clears her throat after every sentence and offers mints at various intervals. Still, she isn’t humiliated. There’s barely two weeks left of the first semester and on December 16th, she’ll be hurtling across the Atlantic to reunite with cheesy fries, mundanity and her two best friends.

Damon hasn’t emailed. It was ridiculous to assume he would. Saying what? _I miss you in my class. This is entirely inappropriate but I’d like to walk along the River Thames with you and talk about our dreams and biggest fears. Then, undress you whilst wearing my blue shirt._ Bonnie squirms on her chair. _Get a fucking grip._

It’s the end of her penultimate lesson and Dr Miles is finishing up her long, frog-throated monologue about Chaucer’s Dream Poetry. She’s wearing a purple cardigan today. Bold choice. The door opens and every head turns, intrigued by the interruption. Professor Salvatore grins in the doorway.

“The papers you requested.”

Dr Miles shuffles from her seat to take the pile from his outstretched hand, and it’s only when his gaze collides with hers that Bonnie realises, she’s been staring. Damon’s eyes widen, quickly, like a dance, and Bonnie’s neck heats. _His attractiveness is, quite frankly, rude._

“Thank you, Damon.”

He nods and pivots back towards the door. The absence of his stare is cold and sobering. _Well then._

Class is dismissed and funnels into the corridor, fatigued by old English and Dr Miles’ rambling. Bonnie’s stomach somersaults: Damon is leaning against the opposite wall _smiling_ at her.

She pushes her mouth into a painfully awkward smile in return and the Professor leaps from his stance to match her stride.

“I read your essay.”

Bonnie tries to concentrate on a response but his arm is brushing beside hers and _fuck_ , their hands have just grazed. “Cool.”

Damon ignores her social deficiency. “It was brilliant.”

_Is he going to walk with me back to halls!?_

“The pacing, how you expanded upon your introduction, even subverted it.”

_Do I take the long route?_

“You surprised me again, Bonnie.”

 _Stop walking. Just stop fucking walking._ She catches on the railing, stiff atop the outdoor staircase they were poised to descend. “Thank you.”

Damon bends his head to look at her, “You’re welcome. It… it left me wanting more.”

 _Did he just lick his bottom lip!?_ “I tend to do that,” she stumbles and, at his widened eyes, adds, “With essays I mean.”

The man exhales a laugh. Exasperated. “You’re talented, you know that?”

“I… um…”

“And you’re…” Damon lifts his chin and squints at the crowd of students are chattering on the square steps, “Shit, this is unprofessional.”

Bonnie’s heart jolts and tumbles and stills and drums. Two girls brush past them, giggling, and Damon’s smile is tight when one trills, ‘Hi Professor Salvatore.’

He clears his throat; continues speaking to the distant conversations.

“What are you doing tonight?”

She blinks. “Excuse me?”

Damon shovels his hands into his pant pockets and studies the ground. “I assume you’re going back to the States after term ends and… let’s just say, I’m intrigued.”

Somehow, she manages to speak. “By… me?”

The Professor hums. “There’s a poetry reading in a little pub in Camden. Thought that might be your kind of thing.”

_How is any of this real?_

“I know, I know. Student, teacher. It’s not exactly story-book is it, Bennett?” He frees his hand, revealing a torn scrap of paper. Damon’s mouth curls as he places it in her palm. “But as I told you weeks ago, you never get anywhere being nice.”

And Bonnie watches him jog down the steps, her mouth ajar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Embarrassingly short and definitely not my best work but it feels good to enter (however tentatively) back into the Bamon world again. Please review.


	5. Chapter 5

“What about ‘What happens in London, stays in London?’”

Bonnie rolls her eyes to an unseeing Caroline. “I was about four tequila shots down when I said that.”

“Doesn’t matter! It’s the principle! What’s the point of a semester abroad if you can’t go on a date with, to quote you, ‘the sexiest professor you’ve ever seen?’”

“He’s thirty-one! It’s weird he even likes me!” She flings herself down on the bed, shoes and bags still attached to various limbs.

Professor Salvatore had walked away, like the damned mystique he was, leaving only a scrawled note in her palm. _The World’s End, Camden. 7pm._ Naturally, she’d pocketed it and called her best friend, voice, heart, mind, _everything_ , leaping into frenzy.

“You can’t help you fall in love with, Bon,” Caroline deadpans. _This girl._

Bonnie shifts the phone into the crook of her shoulder and fumbles with the laces on her red Converse. “It’s reckless.”

“It’s like a fucking _movie_. I swear, if you don’t go, I’m flying to England and going myself.”

“ _Care_.”

“Hurry up and get dressed. Wear something sexy, but classy, obviously. Put on the new lipstick I got you. Maybe a heel?... Or a fucking bin-bag, I don’t care, just GO.”

The blonde disconnects and Bonnie screams, silently, at the dial tone.

* * *

These things just don’t _happen_ to Bonnie Bennett. She’s shy to strangers, reserved, tentative, her bite hidden, seething, rarely emerging. She’s not the one people look at first – she’s the one they look at the longest, trying to decipher. She likes being unreadable: it keeps her safe.

But going across the Atlantic, leaving her home – that wasn’t very Bonnie Bennett. Refusing to take Jeremy back, even when he begged and cried and whispered sorry down the phone, in her ear, on the pillow – that wasn’t very Bonnie Bennett.

Standing on Charing Cross Platform, curled hair, red dress, denim jacket, knee high boots, she entertains the thought that maybe, Bonnie Bennett is unpredictable. A smile flirts with her lips. The butterflies simmer too. _Fuck._

She keeps her hands curled into her lap on the tube. It rattles and groans with the effort of rush hour and when she has to give up her seat for a pregnant lady, her hands sweat around the pole. Bonnie traces the shoes of commuters; with every stop she grows more nauseated.

A group of blue shirt wearing young professionals clamber aboard and her heart swoops thinking it’s Damon, charming with his witticism and grin. Meeting him here would be so painfully awkward – squished together and sweaty. The tube jolts. _Shit._ Camden Town.

Her legs feel more like jelly than skin and bone and with the throes of tired Londoners waiting to take her space on the tube, a part of her wants to be swallowed in their masses and travel far, far away from whatever the fuck is about to happen.

 Caroline’s warnings rattle through her and she steps onto the platform. _You got this, Bonnie._

…

It’s 6:30 when she emerges into the chill of a December evening. _6 fucking 30._ _Half an hour to kill. Great._ Google Maps estimates the walking time a generous two minutes. She has two options: she goes in, gets a drink, finds a table, downs said drink, gets another, waits, _or_ , wanders around Camden in 43 degrees Fahrenheit and a denim jacket.

With Jeremy it had never really been _dating_. They were hanging out, friendly, until one moment, it wasn’t, and they were kissing. First dates, the jittery unpleasantness of it all, is _very_ unfamiliar. Still, sitting and waiting for him to arrive seems too torturous – she’ll just have to walk fast… and call Caroline.

“You better not be calling to say you’re in bed.”

“Can’t you hear the traffic!?”  

There’s a pause, then she squeals. “Elena, she’s there!”

Bonnie hears a distanced whoop down the phone. “And shitting myself. I’ve got twenty minutes until we’re meeting. I’m literally just walking up and down the main road. Getting lots of stares.”

“Probably because you look _hawt._ Is it cold?”

“It’s England in winter. Practically tropical.”

A shuffling as the phone is passed over and Elena giggles into the speaker. “Hey Bon, I can’t believe you’re doing this.”

“Neither can I,” she groans, dodging a dude trying to shove a business card for weed in her face. “My first proper date since your brother and it’s with my Professor.” The absurdity of the statement makes her snort, then want to throw up.

“Well if nothing else, take it as a compliment. He’s _gorgeous_. And intelligent.”

The butterflies beat their wings in agreement. “Fuck my life.”

“More like fuck my teacher!” Caroline’s yell is _just_ audible and Bonnie _and_ Elena squeal.  

“Okay, hanging up now.”

“Bye Bonnie! Good luck!”

She checks the time on her wallpaper. 6:25. _Show time._

The pub is on the corner, unmissable in burgundy and, worryingly, a line of people huddling outside. Bonnie forces her numbed fingers into her purse pocket to check _once more_ the name with Damon’s scrawl. Heart now louder than the street traffic, she joins the end of the queue.

…

It’s 7:05 by the time she’s swallowed in the warmth of the yellow lit room. It’s near full – an aggregation of office workers, hipsters and hippie-types. And, at the edge the room, by a make-shift erected stage, raven hair, and long fingers leafing through the pages of a novel. He’s in his usual shirt except the cuffs are unbuttoned and pushed back to expose toned forearms, giving him a relaxed, off-duty vibe, which - she inhales - is _incredibly_ sexy. When he lifts his head, his eyes are narrowed, scanning the room, looking for _her_. This realisation propels her forward.

Damon’s mouth twitches when he sees her, and for a moment, his stare is captivated; turning her over with every blink. Bonnie curls around the scent of confidence he awakens and yanks, hard. _You can be gorgeous too._

“Good evening, Bennett.” He stands to smooth down his shirt, placing his book on the table to usher her forward. They don’t hug.

“Good evening.” Her limbs feel heavy with his stare as she finds her seat. In the low light, his face is balanced between shadow and luminosity… what that does to his eyes is dangerous.

“You look lovely.”

The blush is inevitable. “I figured I should make a bit of effort.”

Damon quirks a brow. “You wanted to impress me?”

“No,” she says quickly.

“Shame…” he stretches back against the chair, “because it worked.”

Bonnie shifts from his stare, suddenly fascinated by the cover of his novel. She’s about to ask him whether it’s worth a read when a man on a microphone calls for silence. _Poetry, remember?_

She steals glances at the man during the readings – his pressed lips, furrowed brow. When he smiles, she notices it first in his eyes, the crinkled skin around them, before the kicking up of his lip, the folds in his cheek. He looks at her too, between snaps for the finished poet and the next, the light like glitter.

At the end of the third, he bridges the space between them with a whisper. Her shiver is instinctual. “What did you think?”

“I… liked it,” she says lamely. _He’s an English professor, idiot._

“You liked it?”

She nods at the table.

Damon exhales. “But did it make you _feel_ something?”

Bonnie hesitates, then shakes her head.

“Then it wasn’t good poetry.”

He stands, unhooking his jacket from the chair and shrugging it over his shoulders. Bonnie looks at him in alarm, “Where are you going?”

Damon scoops up his novel. “For a contemplative walk. Come on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is another short one. I always get inspiration at night and am too impatient to wait until morning to continue… At least it means more frequent updates, right???   
> Thank you for all the support! Please keep the reviews coming.


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